


Passing Into Shadow

by starcunning (Vannevar)



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Blood Angels, Chapter Serf, Descent to Arkhona, Eternal Crusade, Gen, Librarian - Freeform, Sanguinary Priest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 06:36:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2571743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vannevar/pseuds/starcunning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some happenings cast a long shadow over the Warp, and paths are neither straight nor easy beneath them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passing Into Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> A finalist entry in Behaviour Entertainment's "Descent to Arkhona" fanfiction competition.

Ultramar was at their backs. Commander Dante’s edict to aid the sons of Guilliman in repelling the tyranids was no longer a reality but deeds passing into story. Their ship’s prow had turned toward Baal, to return their squad to the greater phratry of the Blood Angels. Akhazriel had three progenoid glands to return to the chapter’s keeping, and a few wounded to tend to besides. He had left a hand behind in the campaign, his left, and was still acclimating to the gilded augmetic. For much of the voyage he had undertaken small exercises to improve his dexterity, and he was shuffling cards as he watched one of the chapter serfs repaint his battle-scarred armor when a brief rapping interrupted the stillness.

Going to the door, Akhazriel opened it to find the dark-eyed countenance of one of the Librarians of his squad on the far side. “Cabaiel,” he said, stepping back. “Have you come to retrieve your tarot?” The apothecary extended his golden hand in offering, but the psyker waved him off.  
“No, brother. May I speak with you?”  
Akhazriel nodded, taking another step back from the door to allow his entry. Then the pair of them stood facing one another. Beside the armor rack, the serf, a girl, sat chasing the white trim of his armor, carefully scouring away any traces of dirt. “What troubles you, Cabaiel?”  
“My dreams, Brother Akhazriel,” the Librarian admitted. “The shadow of the Great Devourer lies long upon them still, and I am troubled by the portents.”  
“Brother,” said Akhazriel, a smile stretching his scar-notched lips, “the scouring of Ultramar is behind us. I am sorry Chaplain Jalen is not here to provide his wisdom, but he would say the same as I: you acquitted yourself well, and no son of Baal nor of Ultramar can dispute what you have done for our distant brethren.”  
Cabaiel shook his head, dark hair spilling about his shoulders. “It is not the shadow of the past that falls over me, but a spectre of things still to come.”  
“How can you know this?” Akhazriel asked, canting his head to one side. Cabaiel held out a hand, and the apothecary passed the tarot deck into its owner’s keeping.  
“How can you still your thirsting heart when you retrieve our father’s legacy from the corpses of the fallen?” Cabaiel asked, smiling at his silver-haired brother. “I would have neither the knowledge nor the fortitude, but that is your gift, and this is mine.” The Librarian’s fingers plied over the deck, reshuffling it. He turned the cards slowly, letting them fall to the floor as they might. Three cards fell from his fingers; the Fool alone, his head at the psyker’s feet, then the Martyr, and the Ten of Blades fell across it. Cabaiel frowned at it, recoiling. “All of this means things yet to come, and I am sorry to tell you, brother, but none of it is pleasant. Our presence at Ultramar may mean our absence elsewhere, to the ruin of all.”  
Akhazriel reached out to grasp his brother’s shoulder. “Take your cards,” he offered. “Meditate. I am certain this is all behind us.”  
“I will do that,” Cabaiel said with a nod, bending to scoop the fallen cards back into the deck. “We will speak again.”  
Akhazriel only nodded.

— — — — —

It was a week’s time before the psyker with obsidian skin returned, and when he came Esther was in the middle of replacing the chain on her master’s narthecium. Her fingers glistened with sanctified oils. Their voices carried even without the benefit of voxcasters, and though her attention was upon her task it was difficult not to follow the thread of their conversation.  
“Time and distance from Ultramar have not brought me out of this darkness,” confessed the dark-haired Marine. “It feels as though I pass into the penumbra.”  
“Your meditations have brought you no peace, Cabaiel?” her master asked, concern lining his brow. The tear-shaped studs in his pale flesh glittered with the motion.  
“They have brought me names,” Cabaiel said. “Kharon; Arkhona.” He was quiet a long time. “I took the liberty of consulting the charts. A system and a world. An Imperial world.”  
“Where?” Akhazriel asked, a note of curiosity in his voice.  
“Beyond Baal, to the North. An old colony, with a long history.” The psyker produced a scroll and handed it to her master, who frowned down at it. “The tyranids are coming for it.”  
“We shall see,” said Akhazriel. “I appreciate your diligence, brother, but why have you brought this matter to me?”  
“Do you think I have no ears, brother, to hear? I am called the Beguiler for my art, and there is mistrust in it. I do not like that, but I understand it. Whereas when you speak, our brothers listen with eagerness. I am in need of your aid, Akhazriel.”  
“Then I will give it, brother, as I am able. I trust you mean the best for us, but do not let this suspicion consume you. I will consider your concerns. Be at ease.”  
The psyker nodded then, and allowed Akhazriel to lead him to the door. Esther secured the bladed chain in place, bowing her head quickly as her master closed the door.

“Is all in readiness?” Akhazriel asked her, as if surprised to still find her kneeling beside his rack of armor while she replaced the narthecium.  
“Yes, Lord,” she said, eyes respectfully downcast. Then an impulse took hold in her, and she lifted her gaze. “My Lord, if I may be so bold, I wish to speak with you.”  
“Stand,” the Space Marine said, lifting his golden hand. She did as he commanded, arranging her scarlet robes and looking up into that transhuman face. “You were eavesdropping,” he said, too gently to be an accusation.  
“I would not put it that way,” Esther protested. “I was not invited to be part of your conversation, but neither did you dismiss me. I have heard more than you might think, this way.”  
“I suppose you would,” Akhazriel allowed. “Very well; what have you to say to me?”  
“You seem unconcerned about this matter. About Arkhona. Do you not believe what your brother has told you?” said the serf.  
“I am convinced he believes it,” he said.  
“Is that enough to proceed?” she asked.  
“In truth, no,” Akhazriel admitted. “That place is far from here, and falls most likely under the domain of the Wolves of Fenris,” he admitted, glancing down at the chart. “There is little it appears to contribute that the Imperium could not weather the loss of.”  
Esther shook her head. “Perhaps that is all true,” she admitted. “I am not wise in these matters, but I can understand why you have not set course immediately for Arkhona because of your brother’s dreams, but you might at least pass his report on. Even if that planet has nothing to offer, it has human lives in their billions. It is a world of the Imperium, and are you not sworn to protect the Emperor’s dominion?”  
Akhazriel stepped closer to her, looming over her, vast and implacable. She tilted her head back to regard him, feeling like a child. “Many of my brothers would call it impudence if you spoke to them thus,” he said.  
“Then I shall count myself lucky that I was assigned to you,” Esther said, lowering her eyes. “I mean no offense by my words.”  
“Yet you presume to remind me of my oaths.”  
“In the years I have served with you, you have reminded many of theirs, and meant no shame in so doing,” she pointed out. “I do not seek to prevail upon my betters, for though I know we will never be equals, that you are apart from humanity, it seems to me also that you are a part of humanity.”  
“That duality is a curious thing, is it not?” Akhazriel mused, glancing down at the chart in his hands once more.  
“You are the protector of mankind, and if you do not go to Arkhona in person it yet falls to you to see it its protection.”  
He nodded, slowly. “Thank you, Esther,” he said. “That will be all for now.”  
“I live to be of service to you, Lord,” she said, then curtseyed and withdrew.

— — — — —

The songs of the Astropathica raced ahead of them as they plied the tides of the Empyrean, but it was weeks before a response came, and it was not the serf Esther who brought the news but Cabaiel, his face dark with concern. The verdant wax sealing the transcription was still warm, and with nerveless hands the psyker gave it to Akhazriel to open.

Akhazriel’s eyes flitted over the astropathic meta-data, the greetings and formalities that headed every communique from Baal. “How did you come to bring me this?” he asked Cabaiel.  
“I knew it was coming,” said the Librarian simply.  
“‘In reference to the request filed regarding Arkhona, Captain Severian was prepared to deny any redirect, per the request of the Ordo Xenos seeking members of the deployed squads for secondment to the Adeptus Astartes Deathwatch. However, contact was lost with the liaison originating that request. Astrotelepathic origin paths place their heading consistent with entry to the Kharon system, with last communication taking place two weeks prior to the sending of this communique. It is the will of Captain Severian that all survivors of the scouring of Ultramar be redirected to that system to investigate the possibility of tyranid incursion. Supplementary personnel will also be conveyed to aid in repelling the threat.’”  
The Astartes were silent a long time, looking at one another.  
“We are too late to defend Arkhona,” said Cabaiel, a note of regret in his voice.  
“We would always have been too late,” Akhazriel said, grasping his shoulder. “But we have the opportunity now to avenge it.”


End file.
